


The Reason Why

by vials



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Skyfall, as happy as it can be with angsty!Bond on the loose, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 06:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11008113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vials/pseuds/vials
Summary: Navigating any kind of relationship with James Bond is difficult enough. Throw in a case of neither Q nor James knowing what to call whatever it is they haveandthe immediate aftermath of the disaster that was Skyfall, and difficulty levels rise to critical.





	The Reason Why

Q-branch was a silent as it got. It was never completely quiet, not even in the dead of night like it was now; there was always the hum of computers, the echoing footsteps of another late night worker who could be anywhere in the building. It was hard to tell with the way the sound moved down here, and Q had been trying for weeks to work it out. He hated how easy it was to sneak up on him down here; how he could turn around and find somebody standing right behind him, when Q had sworn that the footsteps had been coming from another hallway entirely. Truth be told the underground digs gave him the creeps, and not just a little bit. Aside from the usual amount of unease that would come from being in underground tunnels and bunkers nearly a century old, there was always the lingering fact that they weren’t _supposed_ to be down there, and that above them, not far away at all, lay the burned out shell of their much preferred home.

Still, Q thought it would probably be wrong to return there. After everything that had happened, it didn’t feel like _theirs_ anymore, and anyway, it wouldn’t be right to return without M. Q didn’t know if the day would ever come when they were expected to go back there, but he didn’t think it would be easy. Nor did he truly think it would ever happen, not when he considered the grief still etched on the faces of everyone he worked with. The shock still hadn’t finished sinking in. Q didn’t think there was a single person who hadn’t been affected by the whole mess – hell, even he found himself jumping when a computer decided to do updates in the background, causing its screen to light up or its fan to kick up pace despite nobody being near it. Q was sure there was no evidence of Silva left in the systems, because he had ripped them out and upside-down and every which way in the months following the incident, but he could still never relax. He supposed that was a good thing. He had relaxed too much before, and look where that had gotten him. Arrogance, he thought, would only let you draw from it for so long before it came back to collect payment. 

Well, that was usually the case. Apparently some people hadn’t gotten the memo, and one person in particular: James Bond, who was currently on his way home from some mission to somewhere as far away from London as he could possibly get, even though Q privately thought that he was still carrying so much baggage from the Skyfall incident that he would have to check it in as extra luggage. He had told James as much and had received the expected response: a dismissal that might have been mistaken for some light-hearted deflection if it hadn’t been for the anger Q could hear in his voice, just under the surface, where it always was. It had grown worse over the last few months and Q’s only comfort was the fact that it at least wasn’t only directed at him. Not that it made it much better.

Q paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he became certain he could hear footsteps coming from somewhere behind him. He twisted around in his seat and peered through the lowlights, but none of the motion sensors in the hallway had picked anybody up and turned the lights on. Q got the sudden and completely paranoid thought that someone had managed to disable them, but that was the old kind of thinking that he had to learn to move away from. The thoughts had damn near killed him in the aftermath and he couldn’t let them start getting to him again, not when everything else was in so much danger of going to hell. 

Q shook the thoughts out of his head. He couldn’t keep doing it to himself. Every time James was away and he didn’t have him there to remind him that whatever was going on, they had _something_ there, he would always find himself worrying like this. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself that they weren’t _serious_ , and that James Bond probably didn’t do _serious_ , and he certainly didn’t do _serious_ with men half his age who _also_ happened to work with him and who also happened to be his acting superior in some situations. He could tell himself that until the cows came home but it didn’t stop him worrying about their communication and their arguments and all the subtle little things he had started noticing, as though they were a married couple going through a combined mid-life crisis. He had warned himself of this, but of course he hadn’t listened. It was all very well telling himself that it was just a bit of fun, that they liked to harass one another and snark at one another and occasionally try to one-up one another with nice restaurants and good sex, but it didn’t change the fact that Q had come to quite _like_ James, and that his flat felt that much emptier without him there. 

Sighing, Q turned back to his computer. He still had plenty of work to do but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up; somewhere deep down, he knew he was being watched. He had a fairly good idea of just who it was, too, but usually James would have shown himself by now. Perhaps he wasn’t trying to sneak up on him, then. Perhaps he was doing something else – god knows what. 

There was a quick way to fix this, and it was through the security cameras that Q-branch had got to work wiring up shortly after ending up down here. They still weren’t the best quality because they’d had to make do with what they had, and there were still only so many of them – bigger issues, they had been told, more pressing ones – but the ones they did have were in all the more useful areas, so it didn’t take Q long to find his man. James was certainly hanging around, though it seemed he was dividing his time between pacing the hallways in Q-branch’s general direction, and brooding in one of the empty open plan offices. Q almost wished for some kind of intercom system. It might be fun to see if he could make him jump. 

He tried to get back to work, but the knowledge that James was back put him off. Q felt as though he should go and see him, feeling bad that he was ignoring him even though there was no way for James to know that he knew he was there. At the same time, he thought it might be best to let James come to him, because he had had that irritable clip to his voice on the comms and he had been more irritable in general lately, and he was not the type of person to talk about his feelings and so with a lot of trial and error Q had realised it was probably best to let him stew it out and then come and find him when he was ready to distract himself from it – not the most healthy of coping mechanisms, Q thought, but show him a double-0 with good coping mechanisms. Or _any_ coping mechanisms, for that matter. 

Q shook his head. It was impossible to work with the added realisation that James could sneak up on him at any moment and scare the everloving shit out of him, as he was wont to do some days. Q had no idea what he got from it, but he resented the day he had ever let James realise he was jumpy. He finished the line of code that he was working on and locked down the computer, and then, with a final glance at the security camera to confirm James’s location, he stood up and headed out into the hallway. The lights flickered on as he walked and it seemed odd to be standing there, after being so used to the soft glow from the computer monitors. He felt rather like a rabbit in headlights, and he was still blinking when he descended the stairs into the open-plan area where he had spotted James, which was thankfully devoid of most lighting. 

James was sitting on a random desk, a bottle in one hand and his other flicking nosily through a sheaf of papers. Q cleared his throat, but James didn’t react.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’re a gigantic snoop,” Q said, as he caught up to him. James grunted an acknowledgement of the words, but didn’t say anything. This close to him, Q realised that he really did look a state. Not that that was unusual for James, but this was still a bit much: his clothing was frayed and dirty, he was sporting some stubble around his jawline, and the bags under his eyes were noticeably severe even when Q took away the influence of the lighting.

Perhaps most alarmingly of all was the dried blood that Q could see caked on James’s hand as he lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a swig. He must have looked horrified, because James offered him the bottle.

“Want a sip?” he asked. “It’s good. Expensive. I didn’t pay for it.”

“I’ll pass,” Q said, hesitant. “I still have some work to do, James. Why else do you think I’d be here at this time?”

He had meant to deliver the line light-heartedly, a signal to James that he didn’t have to endure another lecture. Evidently James wasn’t interested in outs, or he wasn’t going to try and ignore the tension in the room; tension which, Q noted, came almost entirely from James. 

“That’s a shame. It’s good.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“And here I was thinking you were waiting for me,” James said, looking at him, slightly glassy-eyed, and ordinarily that would have been a joke as well but for some reason Q found himself flustered, feeling defensive.

“I didn’t expect you back tonight,” he said. “You’re early, actually. I’m more used to staying out there as long as you could get away with.”

“Mm,” James said, taking another swig. Q felt a flicker of frustration; the urge to grab the bottle from him and hurl it across the room. What did James get from it, anyway? He never seemed to get drunk. “You should probably get back to work, then.”

“And what about you?” Q asked, a little shortly. “Are you just going to spend the rest of the night here?”

“Maybe,” James said, and he sounded so genuinely like he couldn’t give a fuck that Q was suddenly desperate to get some reaction out of him.

“And what about your hand?” he demanded. “Or your arm, whatever it is. What did you do to it?”

“Nothing serious. I must have tugged the stitches again.”

“Alright,” Q said, pushing himself up to full height, which admittedly wasn’t impressive, “number one, if it wasn’t serious it wouldn’t have required stitches. And number two, you said nothing about any injuries to us and you certainly didn’t request medical. Making me wonder who exactly stitched that wound up for you, and leading me to conclude that you did it yourself. Which we talked about.”

“Relax, Q,” James said, and usually his voice would have been soothing, even if Q knew deep down that it was an attempt to weasel out of another lecture. This time it just sounded venomous. “It isn’t bad. It’s a cut. How many of those have I had? I’ve had worse and I’ve been fine. You want to see bad? Try getting a gunshot wound to the chest patched up in some Turkish beach shack.”

_Ah_ , Q thought. _There it is_. 

“Yes,” he said, wearily. “You’ve mentioned that. I don’t mean to be funny, James, but I don’t need to hear the story again. Will you please come home with me and rest? I’ll even let you keep the booze.”

“Generous,” James said, dismissive. “I won’t bother you.”

Q was about to argue, but for the first time he found he couldn’t be bothered. There was no getting around the fact that James wasn’t going to listen to him; he would have better luck if he just let the man sober up. He doubted they would be able to have a heart-to-heart about all this, but at least it would act as some damage control. Nothing good would come of arguing with the man.

“Alright, don’t,” Q said, shrugging. “I’ll be working, if you decide you want to come back with me. If not, have fun, I guess.”

Despite his convictions he still felt bad walking away; a part of him had perhaps watched too many movies, because he half expected James to call after him or come and find him once he got back to Q-branch. There was no sign of him, and it was a tough hour that followed. 

He spotted James again, purely by accident, on his way out. Q hadn’t been entirely sure there was any point in going home because he would have to be at work again in a few hours anyway, but the thought of a hot shower and something to eat had persuaded him to give himself a short break. He had been walking past one of the bathrooms when he saw that the light was on inside, and he could hear a tap running with a fair bit of force. Frowning, he almost walked past, but something tugged him inside instead.

It was just as well, really. James was sitting on the floor near the sinks, one of which was splattered with blood and gushing water. James wasn’t unconscious, exactly, but he was close to it, and Q could see the bottle he had been drinking from earlier was empty. Most alarming was the wound James had insisted had been nothing – it was, in fact, _something_ , and Q could see even from his place at the door that the amount of stitches James had put into it had not been enough. It was relatively small, compared to some of the injuries James had had, but it was vicious and deep, a clear defence wound from James shielding himself from a knife. Q supposed it was the awkward angle rather than negligence that had caused the poor stitch job, but given James’s apathy to things lately, who could tell?

“James,” Q said, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. He knew James wouldn’t appreciate it, even in this state. Q set his laptop case down by the door and stepped closer. “This is not a very flattering place to be found taking a nap, you know.”

“I’ve been in worse places,” James mumbled, and Q privately thought it was rather impressive that he was even able to understand James, considering the man’s chin was resting heavily on his chest.

“I suppose you want me to mind my own business?” Q asked, though even as he did so he was walking over to James, crouching down beside him. “Or can you agree with me on one thing?”

“Depends what it is.”

“If you let me help you get this sorted out properly, we don’t mention it to anyone.”

“I’ll be fine,” James said, a parroted line with no feeling behind it, and Q felt another flicker of frustration.

“You will not,” he said firmly. “You’ve already lost a lot of blood, those stitches could be called subpar _only_ if I’m feeling kind, and because you’re a bloody idiot you’ve been drinking heavily, meaning your blood is thinned out. I’ve never seen you in a state like this because of drink before, so I’m forced to assume this is down to blood loss. You can bleat you’ll be fine all you want, but it might well be the last thing you ever do.”

“I haven’t died yet, have I?” James snapped, though some of the effect was lost due to the state he was in. 

“So do you really want to go out over something so stupid?” Q demanded. He picked up James’s jacket, bundled up on the floor beside him, and shook it out. “You’ve survived god knows what and you want to be found dead from an easily treatable knife wound? On the floor of a _toilet_? Classy, James. Give me your arm.”

James could have resisted him easily, but made only a half-hearted attempt to stop Q from wrapping the wound up in the jacket. Q twisted it around James’s arm tightly and tucked the jacket under itself to hold it in place; giving it a quick tug to ensure it would remain tight, he looked up at James.

“Does that hurt?” he asked, referring to the jacket.

“Yes.”

“Can you feel your fingers?”

“Not really.”

“Good,” Q said briskly. “It’s doing its job, then.”

“You better not be conspiring to drag me to a hospital, Q,” James said warningly.

“Do you have a better idea?” Q asked. “Unless you want to be stitched up in my kitchen. Which is _not_ an offer, by the way.”

“It just needs a bandage,” James said. Evidently being around somebody had breathed some strength back into him; using his good arm he pushed himself up a little straighter, though he winced as he did so. “It’ll be fine, so long as I don’t pull on it.”

“Shame you didn’t think of that before,” Q said drily, and James’s face twitched slightly in annoyance.

“Well, it was a little difficult,” he said. “You know, still having people to avoid, and a mission to complete. It would have been just wonderful to sit on my arse, but duty does call, you know.”

“There’s no need to be condescending,” Q shot back. “Or is it your turn to give _me_ a lecture? Something about how technology is obsolete and field work is still the best way to do anything? Or will it be a new flavour this evening?”

“I think over the last few months we’ve both realised we’re equally crap, haven’t we?” James asked, and while Q knew the cruelty in his voice wasn’t directed at him it still hurt.

“So sitting on the floor drinking and bleeding to death is the correct way to deal with this, is it?” Q snapped. “You’re impossible, Bond. I don’t know what kind of tortured hero you’re playing but it’s not impressing me and it’s not impressing anybody around you. You’re a bloody liability and I’m not going to sit here and _baby_ you, for Christ’s sake.” He knew he should probably stop, but months of frustration were rushing to the surface and he couldn’t help himself if he tried. “You’re not the only one who’s grieving. You’re not the only one who feels responsible for all of this. We’re all going through a really awful time and the last thing we need is some errant agent running out onto the field before he’s ready, getting injured, fucking things up, and expecting us all to coddle him both on the field and at home. There are dozens of people out at any one time and I do not have the time to look after you so closely! You need to grow up and really think about if this is still what you want to do, and if it is, if you’re mentally capable of doing it. M would be bloody ashamed if she could see this.”

It was a low blow but it was true; at the very least, it finally got an expression out of James that wasn’t bored indifference. There was a look in his eyes that made Q briefly fear that he had gone too far, that James might actually hurt him, but as quickly as it had come it seemed to flash inward and Q realised that all he had done, really, was tell James nothing he didn’t already know.

“M’s dead,” he said, but not as a way to deflect what Q had said. It was a simple and dejected statement of fact, and for a moment the two of them could only sit and feel the weight of the words settle on them.

“She is,” Q eventually said. His voice sounded small in the space the silence had created; even the white noise of the tap still running didn’t help. “But she had faith in you even when you had none, and you should probably remember that now.”

“Thought she would be _ashamed_ ,” James said dully.

“She would.” Q shrugged. “But then she would tell you to get the hell up and get on with it, and she would trust you would. That’s the difference.”

James stayed silent, his way of admitting he didn’t have anything to say to that and was reluctantly conceding the point. 

“Listen,” Q said, pleadingly now. “Will you _please_ let me help you here? I know you’re not happy being like this. I know you don’t feel any satisfaction from this at all, even if you do seem to like playing the tortured soul. This isn’t the man who told me I still had spots at the National Gallery.”

“You do still have spots.”

“Is it any wonder? It’s the stress of putting up with _you_.”

James snorted, and Q felt a little bit of tension leave his shoulders.

“You admitted it,” James said. “I’ll remember that.”

“You imagined it,” Q shot back immediately. “You’re delirious with blood loss.”

James reached up then, pressing his hand against the back of Q’s head and pulling him closer. His lips were slightly cold, which didn’t help Q’s worries, and he usually managed to kiss him with a lot more coordination, but at that moment none of it mattered. Q was simply glad to have him there, and that they had both been forgiven for anything they might have said in anger.

“Why do I love you?” James murmured, when they were still only inches apart. Q felt a slight heat creep into his cheeks. “You know, I never thought I would go in for something like this.”

“Something like what?” Q asked, blinking.

“Someone who makes me realise what a twat I can be,” James answered. “Someone who pushes me to improve myself. Someone who makes me _want_ to.”

Q smiled. “Maybe because you’ve got a bit of sense in you somewhere. Deep down.”

“Cheeky sod,” James said, and let Q pull him to his feet.

“I hope that wasn’t the blood loss, too,” Q said, once James was relatively steady on his feet. “You know, along with somehow thinking I admitted I still got spots.”

“The loving you part?” James asked. He cupped a hand under the tap and leaned down, throwing it over his face before finally shutting the tap off. “No, that was definitely intentional. About time I finally said it, don’t you think?”


End file.
